Lingering Heroes
by Anthony P
Summary: Bruce Wayne confronts a childhood hero and contemplates the true origins of the Batman.


LINGERING HEROES

The snow fell around him, like millions of dead angels plummeting to the earth. Letting their silent softness melt against his face, they mingled with the beginnings of his tears. The sky was gunmetal gray with no moon to soothe his suffering, and the stars were lost behind a murky shade of winter. Skeletal trees towered before him, hideous faces hidden within the folds of bark and twisted limbs. Upon meeting their gaze, however, Bruce could only grin, as if acknowledging a secret between them. The land around him was a vast sea of marble and granite. Waist-high, flat stones with names and numbers carved delicately into the face of each one, marking the passing of a life.

Bruce stood before just such a stone.

The names were familiar, as well as the dates beneath. Slowly lowering himself onto one knee, he lay before the stone two roses, as he did every year on this night. Two perfect flowers left to represent the passing of two perfect lives.

Carefully, he ran his finger along the shallow trench of each letter, spelling out each name, while whispering them under his breath as he did so. The material of his black glove was insulated, and so he removed it to better know the coldness of the stone.

The chill of the marble coursed through his hand, but he welcomed it. Closing his eyes, Bruce tried to envision their smiles as he remembered them. This was getting harder to do as each year passed, for in order to deal with the harshness of the world, he has had to make himself numb to pain, both physical and emotional. Unfortunately, he was getting very good at it.

The terrible cold beneath his unguarded flesh felt pleasurable, euphoric, like a tortured soul finally allowed to die. The sting in the tips of his fingers, as he stroked the headstone, tracing now the epitaph, was a masochistic ecstasy he assumed was reserved only for madmen. Then what did this say about him?

A few moments pass, and he lays his face against the marble. He can almost feel the warmth of his parent's skin as he once knew it, nestled in their embrace, his tiny cheek resting against a familiar shoulder as he is carried off to bed.

The double-pointed headpiece that covers most of his head begins to grow damp near his eyes, as tears trickle down the inside toward his quivering lips. Looking around, he sees no one, and so he pushes the headpiece back, away from his face. A chilled evening breeze picks up and blows his long black cape behind him. At first, it resembles a demonic entity, creeping up behind him and about to rip out his soul. Then at once, it settles to the ground, draped carelessly against the earth.

How many more nights will he repeat this ritual? Until the ache goes away? Ah, but the ache is an old friend by now and, at times, the source of his true power. While others like him receive their strength from the sun, laboratory accidents, cosmic rings, or radioactive insects, his comes from his grief and a need for vengeance. Yet, does this make him a hero or merely a vigilante, as some would believe? Whatever the answer, the only real truth that Bruce will allow himself to accept is that he is as obsessed with crime as those he calls criminals—the end goal being the only difference.

The one truth that could save his soul, however, is the one in which he lives in constant denial—that no matter how long he continues his crusade, no matter how many evildoers he brings to justice, his parents are never coming back. Having already been avenged a thousand times over, when will it be enough? When will the fire die out, the flame that ignites his suffering every night of his life? When will the pain become a comfort, a safe reminder of the two precious souls taken from him, instead of a reason to force his fist down the throat of every psychopath that dares show their face in his city?

Kneeling in the muddy snow, the cold wetness threatens to penetrate the strong, yet thin, material of his pants. The toes of his sleek, black boots sink into the soft earth, and his cape catches an occasional breeze. At this moment, he is reminding the world, and himself, that he is first and foremost a man—a living, feeling creature. He can bleed and die, as easily as he can laugh and know joy. Bruce embraces the ultimate low that is the pain of his parents' loss, as if empowering himself for his nightly task.

The air around him picks up and scatters a few dead leaves in his direction. Somewhere off in the distance, an owl scoffs at his tears, while at the same time, a train flashes across the horizon. The human sounds of the city are far off in the distance and, to the best of his knowledge, there isn't another soul within the wrought iron confines of these holy grounds.

Yet, Bruce knows he is no longer alone.

A mist begins to form at the base of the hill by the front gate. Eventually, it grows big enough to appear as if a massive fog has engulfed the entire area, before finally slipping through the fence's meager defenses. As the fog intrudes upon the land of the dead, it spreads out along the ground, giving the cemetery a ghostly appearance reminiscent of a classic horror film.

All at once, he feels the air turn moist, like the way it becomes just before a thunderstorm. Instinctively, he pulls his mask back down over his face and stands up. With a patient turn of his head, he scans the area with all five of his finely honed senses. The only part of his body that reacts involuntarily to the strange phenomenon is the hair on the back of his neck.

Something is wrong, but, strangely enough, he does not feel threatened.

Slowing his breathing, he forces his shivering muscles to be still. Bruce pushes his cape back behind him, so that his utility belt is exposed and within easy reach, his stare focused on the cemetery gate. Despite his ability to remain patient and still for long periods, the anticipation was quickly becoming unbearable.

Three or four eternities later, he sees it.

At first, he can make out a dark human shape, the silhouette of a man showing vaguely through the fog. The shape is approaching him languidly, and not in a menacing manner. A strong gust of wind suddenly picks up, blowing one of the roses in the direction of the strange apparition. When the rose reaches the stranger's feet, the wind stops as suddenly as it began. Bending down, the stranger picks up the flower and lifts it to his nose.

As the stranger comes closer, Bruce can see the man is wearing a black cape, similar to his own but shorter, and a wide brimmed hat. Tall riding boots adorn his feet, and a black shirt with laces up the front graces his upper torso. Upon his face he wears a thin black mask, like a bandit, and at his side a rapier hangs from his belt.

Upon seeing the weapon, Bruce quickly performs in his mind every defensive maneuver he knows to counter a sword attack. Within seconds, he is ready.

When the stranger finally comes close enough to reveal his face, the fog begins to disperse, stopping only a few feet away from Bruce, as if to allow Bruce the chance to absorb what he sees.

"Hello, Bruce," the stranger says softly with a delicate Spanish accent. "It has been some time, no?"

Though aware of who he was looking at, Bruce could not logically explain it. Perhaps a new villain, someone taking on this particular guise knowing it would torment him so. Even still, it did not explain the overwhelming sensation of tranquility Bruce felt emanating from the stranger's presence.

"I know what you are doing right now," the stranger admitted, "and I assure you, you are wasting your time. You are trying to rationalize my appearance in this cemetery—the appearance of Zorro. But I promise you, to do so would be an insult to your intelligence. You know better, Bruce…and you _know_ what I am doing here."

Bruce remained still, being careful not to betray his thoughts with the slightest gesture or breath. This man knew his name, his _real_ name, yet, for some reason, Bruce was unnaturally at ease. The moment called for action, yet he was still unsure of the situation, or what exactly was taking place. _Let him talk some more_, he thought. _He's bound to give something away. _

It suddenly occurred to Bruce that this man knew he would be here tonight.

"All of the things you are thinking right now would be worth considering," the stranger continued, "if I was in fact a tangible being. I am not real, Bruce, at least not in the way you think I am. I am not even a ghost, despite these surroundings. You created me. Actually, you created a version of me, let us say, back when you were only a small boy. You had such a vivid imagination then—you still do. It is merely numbed by logic and facts, all those things that eventually wear down and destroy one's childhood as they grow older. You were a lonely child, and you did not have many friends. I was always there for you, wasn't I?"

Bruce felt his knees go weak upon hearing the being's testimony, but he was able to catch himself before his body dipped even slightly. _This is not happening_, he thought to himself. _Have I been drugged and, if so, by whom? I've been in contact with no one all evening, except Alfred. What, then? Have I passed out in the snow? _Trying to look behind him, Bruce quickly became aware that his body was unable to perform that particular motion—his muscles would not respond to what his brain was telling them to do. His body was not paralyzed; he simply could not turn around. _Hypothermia, shock, frostbite, dehydration_, his mind raced through a list ofpossibilities, none of which would explain his ability to consciously acknowledge the present situation. Lifting his hands to his head, he massaged an ache that wasn't there, a gesture he would normally refrain from doing when facing a potential enemy for fear of appearing weak.

For the first time, Bruce realized how cold it was.

"Bruce, come now," the stranger said, seeming genuinely concerned.

"Everything is all right. We just need to talk for a moment. Isn't that why you summoned me here?"

"Me?" Bruce said, the first word he uttered aloud since leaving the mansion, "What are you saying? Why you—why Zorro?"

"Everyone needs their heroes, Bruce" the stranger said with a smirk, "even you."

"I remember now," Bruce whispered, sitting down upon a marble bench beside the gravesite. All at once, his mind was flooded with bitter memories, ones he hadn't allowed himself the luxury of recalling since he was a boy. "I remember you, the movie. _The Mask of Zorro;_ I wanted to see it so badly. I had to see it opening night. My parents wanted to wait until the following week, because they were busy. But I insisted…I begged. They finally gave in. For the first time, Zorro would be a real person, not just a voice on the radio. I was so happy, so excited. My parents even enjoyed it—they loved Tyrone Power. After the movie, father told Alfred to drive home without us. It was a beautiful evening, and we had all agreed to walk. Father knew a short cut through an alley…I insisted we see the movie that night, not next week like they had wanted. Next week, when that man would not be waiting in the alley with a gun—waiting to steal my mother's pearl necklace, waiting to destroy everything…my entire world."

"Yes," the stranger interrupted, "any other night of their lives, except the night you wanted to go, and they would have escaped their deaths. Isn't that how you choose to see it? You have blamed yourself all these years, because it is easier to live with guilt than to admit fate played any kind of a role."

Awaking from the slight trance in which recalling that night had put him, Bruce turned to look upon the stranger again. For the first time, he could see the stranger's eyes—they were white and empty.

"In my line of work," Bruce said sternly, "there is no such thing as fate."

"Oh no?" the stranger exclaimed, "Then why not blame Zorro? If there was no Zorro, then there would have been no movie for you to see. Or why not blame the clams in the sea for creating the pearls strung about your mother's neck that this man coveted enough to take her life? You do not understand, Bruce; all of this was meant to happen. If it did not, you would have grown to be the same shallow playboy you pretend to be during the day. Surely you cannot argue this."

Bruce looked away, unable to meet the stranger's stare.

"Ah, come now, Bruce," the stranger said consolingly. "Listen to what I am saying. Were it not that scoundrel that night, it would have been someone else another night. Gotham's savior _had_ to be born."

The stranger paused as if to study Bruce's reaction, but there wasn't one to see.

"You are a man of science, Bruce," the stranger continued, "a believer in cause and effect. Your faith lies in logic and reason, does it not? This system of belief suits you, but do not allow it to trick you into believing, for one moment, that forces beyond your control do not exist."

Bruce turned away from the night sky, his attention reverting back to the stranger. Standing up slowly, his stare met the stranger's own. "There is not much in this world that can be explained any other way," he said through gritted teeth, extending a finger in the stranger's direction. "Fate is merely a concept man chooses to believe in when he cannot come to terms with unfortunate circumstances. It is a comforting thought to believe that your life is planned out for you at birth by some higher power. Freewill becomes meaningless, because with fate there is no wrong choice. Whatever you do, whatever decisions you make, you can conveniently say that it was _meant_ to happen!"

The stranger did not seem affected by Bruce's sudden burst of conviction, staring into his eyes as if Bruce had not spoken at all. When Bruce had finished speaking, the stranger turned and walked toward the cemetery gates before stopping abruptly.

"It is a shame you are not a godly man," the stranger said regretfully. "Otherwise, you might see and understand the connection between yourself and the Christian Savior." The stranger hesitated, as if to give Bruce the chance to protest his use of such reasoning. When Bruce did not, the stranger continued. "As His followers mourned His death at the hands of the Romans, despite all the suffering He endured, He assured them that

it was meant to happen. He told them this not merely to comfort them, but because, as most Christians would believe, it was true. In order for Him to ascend to paradise, He must know great pain. His suffering was seen as a tragedy, yet His true form was born from this suffering—just like Gotham's savior was born of tragedy."

Bruce stood once again facing the moonless sky, his blank expression and piercing eyes searching the darkness for some kind of comfort in the stranger's words, but he found none.

When next he spoke, his voice was barely a whisper. "I have no reason to believe any of this. Tonight is the anniversary of my parents' death, and my emotions are unstable. The temperature outside is nearly freezing, and I've been out here for hours. As a result, I'm either hallucinating, or passed out behind me in the snow, and this is all taking place in my head. In either case, none of this is real, and I have no reason to continue speaking to you."

Bruce remained as he was, unmoving and silent, waiting for the stranger to leave first, but the stranger stood as still and silent as he. Eventually, the stranger lowered his head in disgust and waved his hand dismissively. "Bah!" he said in a tone of disgust, "Return then to the pain you know so well. You believe that because your parents were murdered when you were but a child that there is dignity in your suffering? Well, I assure you there is none, unless you can accept that there was a purpose behind their deaths. Your pathetic indulgence in self-pity does not suit your true nature, and regardless of what you may believe, it does not make you stronger!"

Bruce could see the stranger's contorted expression and put himself, once again, on guard.

"I find your unconditional acceptance of scientific logic sickening," the stranger hissed, "and I suddenly feel an overwhelming need to destroy it. If you will not accept the possibility that your entire life is an act of fate, then there is no hope at all for redemption."

Reaching behind him, the stranger pulled his hand back around in a fist. Something dangled from the stranger's grasp, but, despite their close proximity, Bruce could not make out what it was.

With amazing speed, the stranger threw the object at Bruce, and with equally amazing reflexes, Bruce caught it. He recognized the slight rattle as it made contact with his hand. Feeling the item's texture against his palm and fingers, he knew what it was before lowering it before his eyes—aware of whose it had been, and from where it had been purchased.

"If you refuse to believe that logic and reason cannot answer every mystery this world has to offer," he heard the stranger say, "then let it answer this. When you bring it to your lab, as you predictably will, you will discover the fingerprints belong to a certain murderer, and the blood to a certain woman."

With these words, the stranger turned about face and made his way toward the cemetery gates. Before reaching the entrance, he glanced back, as if looking upon an old friend he would never see again, bidding him farewell with only a look before vanishing into the fog.

Looking down at his hand, Bruce stared in morbid fascination at his mother's pearl necklace. It was indeed the same one the man with the gun had removed from her lifeless body that night, before disappearing into the shadows, and it was the same one he knew was later recovered and buried with her.

When the necklace fell from his grasp, it took a thousand years to reach the ground. A second later, Bruce followed it. As he lay with the side of his face in the snow, he could see, from the corner of his eye, the feint shape of the stone with his parents' names carved into the front. Before it, a large, dark shape lay strewn, a thin layer of fresh snow blanketing its surface. Through blurry eyes, he tried to identify the shape, but to no avail.

Whatever it was, it lay motionless, perfectly still, as if lifeless. In certain areas about the shape, he could make out smaller shapes the color of pale flesh. A large black sheet, resembling a tarp, was draped over the shadowy form. At one end, a slightly bigger, rounder portion of the flesh-toned area was exposed. Bruce could make out hair with some sort of hood gathered behind it, as if pulled back.

At that same moment, he could hear the sound of a car engine in the distance. The sound became louder as it approached, its headlights seeming like two radiant beams of heavenly light. A few seconds later, a long black car stopping in front of the cemetery gates filled his fading vision, the engine sound ceasing with a mechanical shudder.

A well-dressed elderly man exited the vehicle and rushed over to the dark shape lying in the snow. In the tree above his parents' grave, a host of bats took flight, no doubt startled by the cemetery's latest intruder.

Falling to his knees, the elderly man turned over the dark shape. "My God," the man cried out, "you are a sight. Best get you home."

The man, surprisingly strong for his age, dragged the dark shape over to the car. "It's a wonder you even remembered to press the distress signal on your belt."

Bruce watched everything unfold, as if from the safety of a dream. The elderly man's name was unknown to him, yet he was astonishingly familiar. The cold, now biting mercilessly into his face, felt like a monstrous rodent gnawing on his cheek. Looking down, he could see that his hands were exposed and turning an unsightly shade of blue, though he did not recall ever removing his gloves.

The elderly man came closer, still dragging the dark shape. As both came closer into view, the dark shape took on a more precise form. Though his vision was still blurry, Bruce could see the dark shape was a man dressed in some sort of strange costume. As the unconscious man neared him, what he noticed first and foremost caused him to gasp. The symbol emblazed on the man's chest meant something to him; he knew it did, though he could not remember for the life of him what it was. Waiting patiently for the unconscious man's face to become clearer, he knew determining the symbol's significance would put an end to this madness.

When the elderly man finally paused to catch his breath, before reaching the car, Bruce was face to face with the unconscious man, yet, to his horror, the man's face was completely featureless.

When they reached the vehicle, the elderly man managed to lift the other man into the backseat. Before closing the door, Bruce could hear him mutter, "Gotham's underworld will sleep peacefully tonight." Then he climbed into the driver seat and drove away.

As Bruce lay there, he watched the last plumes of exhaust slip out the car's tailpipe and mingle with the wintry air. No longer did he feel the pain of the cold, nor could he remember why he was laying as such in the first place.

Most of all, however, he wondered why a pearl necklace was clutched tightly in his hand.


End file.
